Moonlight
by Loremaster of Anorien
Summary: From the movie Sabrina. "She is no ethereal Parisian goddess, no wispery-voiced sliver of the moon, no gamine waif whose innocence launches the favor of a baron."


Disclaimer: I do not own Sabrina (1956), Sabrina (1995), or Sabrina Fair.

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Sometimes, at night, Elizabeth wakes up, drenched in sweat, and she must reach towards the other side of the bed, still blind from sleep. Every time, though, he's there, David's still there, his sunny hair sliding through her fingers, his shoulder, hard as marble but warm and beating, alive and corporeal.

It's those times that she is allowed to study him as thoroughly as she wants, and even now, she's amazed by how much of a god he resembles, even among all the golden-boy WASPs of their social set.

Deity, he is not, though. For David is all too real, with everything that the word implies attached.

And yet, despite the understanding that he's no angel nor even a saint, Elizabeth can never shake off the sick fear that one day, she'll be at a party, laughing politely at the jokes of ivory-tower hedge-fund managers and powdered society matrons, and she'll turn around, and he won't be there. Or, that they'll be on a yacht in the Sound, and she'll close her eyes, briefly, to enjoy the sun, and when she opens them, he's won't be there. Or, worst of all, one night, she'll have one of those nightmares, and she'll wake up and feel for him at her side, and there'll be nothing but the faintest of indentions left on the sheets.

After all, somewhere, over the sea, is the moon, and she can hardly expect to compete with the moon. She's just Elizabeth. Her hair is practical. She loves her job, works hard, and comes home late at night. She's a mediocre cook. Her apartment is clean and attractive but mostly indistinguishable from those of other workaholic professionals. She's excellent at parties, often draws more than a few eyes when she works the crowd, but the conversation never ceases when she enters the room.

She's never had two brothers fight for her favors, no one who gave up a multibillion-dollar corporation for a whirlwind romance in the City of Light. She is no ethereal Parisian goddess, no wispery-voiced sliver of the moon, no gamine waif whose innocence launches the favor of a baron.

Yes, David chose her, chose Elizabeth Tyson, but there are times when she wonders how someone as earthbound as she managed to capture him, blinded as he was by moonlight. Their marriage was so business-like, quid pro quo, her hand for her family's willingness to tie their company to the Larrabees' in holy matrimony.

All while his brother, stuffy Linus with his undertaker's hat, managed to burrow out of Hades and take Persephone to Paris.

And she's left with David. David of the three ex-wives and tennis-court flirtations, David of the fast cars and inappropriate suits. David of the champagne glasses in his pockets. David of the constant late nights, now at the office. David of the surprise bouquets at lunch, roses and gardenias spelling out _David + Elizabeth_. David of the bloody nose, after he tricked Linus onto the ship bound for Gay Par-ee.

Needless to say, she loves him, warts under his golden skin and all. He may not be a proper prince, and she may not be a perfect princess, and their relationship may not be a fairy-tale, but what they have is human and attainable and real. She only wished she was more sure of his love and less paranoid about his feelings for his fantasy mermaid fair. . .

Sometimes, at night, she has nightmares and wakes up with silent screams and sweat on her skin. She reaches over to him, wanting to feel him underneath her fingers.

He's still there, breathing slowly, in, out.

She presses her lips against his bare back and is startled when he abruptly shifts and settles an arm around her, mumuring it's all right, it's okay, go to sleep.

Startled, she relaxes and basks in this unexpected tenderness. It's these little things that she lives on and that give her hope for their uncertain future.

That, and the constant refrain in her head: he chose her. _Her_.

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Author's Note: I drew upon both films as inspiration for this piece, although my characterization of Elizabeth Tyson is drawn more heavily from the 1995 remake, because I found the fleshed-out tidbits intriguing. David Larrabee is the same as he was in both films. As for Sabrina Fairchild, I demurred to the classic interpretation. No offense to Julia Ormond.


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